


Lessons

by Boykingsofhell (Alexis_Oreilly)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel/Dean Winchester (mentioned) - Freeform, Gen, Homophobic John Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, John Winchester's Journal, Pre-Canon, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, more from context than anything else, suicide mention in relation to the nuns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28788828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexis_Oreilly/pseuds/Boykingsofhell
Summary: "Dean’s hands were stained with grave dirt, crusted deep under his fingernails with God knows what else from the coffins. He was still shaking. Not just from the hunt, with the sweat and strain of digging up two graves instead of one, and not just from the bruises blossoming on his left side where one nun had thrown him into the wall.Dad knew."January 24, 1996. Dean's Birthday and first solo hunt. Specifically, salting and burning the bones of two nuns, who had fallen for each other and, when discovered, committed suicide together. This is inspired by the passage in John Winchester's Journal which recounts this, and is a possible answer for what happens when Dean gets home.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure many of you have seen this on tumblr, but this is inspired by a specific passage in John Winchester's Journal. There's a link to the passage here: https://thegeminisage.tumblr.com/post/640264468116520960.
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoyed the fic! Or if you have different thoughts on the aftermath of Dean's first solo hunt. You can find me on tumblr @boykingsofhell where I post spn content.

Dad’s asleep when he returns, sprawled out on a motel bed, boots on, .45 held loosely in one hand. The ratty yellow curtains on the motel room windows are drawn shut, sun streaming through anyway, lighting up the room with a sickly yellow glow. Sammy’s gone, at school if he’s got any sense at all. Something aches in Dean’s chest. He should have been there to walk him, though he hadn’t stepped through school gates himself in near two years. Dad had been pleased when he’d looked old enough to be out of school years before he actually was. Sammy with his baby face would be stuck in that hellhole a few years longer at least, but Sam never looked at school with the same disdain and get-through-it attitude Dad and Dean always held onto.

Anyway. Point was, Sammy wasn’t there. Not that Dad’s snoring wouldn’t have driven him from the room by now, even if the little shit wasn’t such a nerd.

Dean’s hands were still stained with grave dirt, crusted deep under his fingernails with God knows what else from the coffins. The duffel slung over his shoulder clanked as he set it down, guns and loose bullets rattling where his hands had been shaking too hard to pack them down proper. His hands were still shaking. Not just from the hunt, from the sweat and effort of digging up two graves instead of one, and not just from the bruises blossoming on his left side where one nun had thrown him into the wall.

Dad knew. He _knew._

Dean didn’t know how. He’d been so careful, had fucked plenty girls, looked away from enough boys, had laughed at Dad’s jokes and sneered at the right people.

And still, John Winchester had shoved a shotgun loaded with rock salt into his hands and aimed him towards exactly the sort of people he was meant to despise. He’d called it a Birthday present.

Happy fucking Birthday to him.

He sat down heavy on the empty motel bed, toed off his boots and dug crescents into his fists. He turned and his left side flared, pain radiating with each inhale. Nothing was broken. Dean had long learnt to tell if an injury was bad enough to tell Dad about, and this one wasn’t. He dug two advil out of the bedside table and swallowed them dry. Give it a few days and he’d be fine. Plus, he’d avoid the dressing down he was sure to otherwise get for being so careless on a hunt. Five minutes of careful breathing and the pain had lessened to only a sharp throb.

Carefully, Dean rose to get a glass of water, rinsing the motel glass before he filled it from the tap. He got another, set it on the table near Dad, for when he woke with a throbbing head and who knew what kinda mood.

Back into the kitchen, he leaned into the counter too hard and recoiled, fresh pain shooting daggers down his side.

 _“Shitfucksonofabitch,”_ he hissed, closing his eyes against the stars burnt onto his eyelids.

John sat up immediately, .45 clutched tight, eyes bright and aware even when Dean knew the pounding that was going on behind them. He saw Dean wincing against the counter and relaxed incrementally. Even half-asleep and hungover, John Winchester could evaluate and dismiss threats in seconds.

“You hurt, son?” Dean didn’t notice the worry in his voice behind the question.

“No. I’m fine, Dad. Don’t worry about it.” He grimaced, propping himself as the stars disappeared from his vision.

Despite the evidence to the contrary, Dad was willing to take him at face value. This time.

“How was the hunt?” John got up and moved closer, reaching for his pistol, checking and rechecking the safety. A habit.

Dean gave an easy grin and stood straighter. “Great. Easy. Malevolent, but nothing too crazy. I busted them up pretty quick. Rock salt worked great.”

“You learn anything?” The words were casual, forced. There was steel in that question. Dean’s guts churned even as he nodded. Matched John’s tone.

“Yes sir.”

Silence hung between them, heavy and uneasy in a way Dean usually didn’t let it get. John broke first.

“Go to bed. We’ll debrief once you got some shuteye.”

“Yes sir.”

Dean moved to lay down over the covers, grave dirt still clinging to him like sin. He’d wash it off in the evening, and everything would be fine. He’d been waiting to check the water pressure anyway. Dad moved around the kitchen, sighing and clanking and pulling open yesterday’s newspaper, no doubt to circle the right kinda stories in red. Dean fought the urge to turn away. He made his breathing even out, let his eyes slip closed. Both he and John knew he wasn’t sleeping.

Later, when dark circles haunted the space beneath his eyes Dad wouldn’t comment. Wouldn’t reprimand him when his voice cracked over the debrief except to tell him to speak clearly.

When Sammy got home, he’d stand by the door, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out what no one would tell him.

No one _would_ tell him, and it would be twenty years and the hundredth read of Dad’s journal before he connected his memories and the written word. He’ll curse John Winchester and Dean both, and look over at his brother, standing too close to Cas. He won’t mention it.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! You can find me on tumblr @boykingsofhell.


End file.
